


New Growth

by WhitethornWolf



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Muriel Route Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 07:53:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19224886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhitethornWolf/pseuds/WhitethornWolf
Summary: Muriel blinks at them; at their face poking out of the voluminous cloak. His cheeks colour, mouth twitching at the corners. Then slowly, wordlessly, he opens his arms.“What are you doing?” they ask, brows raised. He’s bare-chested underneath, still clad in the heavy furs and leather he’d left Vesuvia in, though he hasn’t taken off the scarf they bought him.Muriel’s dark eyebrows draw together, as if the answer should have been obvious. “You’ll be warmer if we share.”~The apprentice and Muriel share some body heat and a kiss. SFW, I promise.





	New Growth

**Author's Note:**

> Apprentice is my genderfluid Daya  
> Follow me @lesbianarcana for good stuff

“You’re shaking,” Muriel says.

He’s watching them, or at least Daya assumes so. They can’t see, but they know where he is - sitting a little way back from the fire, leaning against a gnarled old tree and whittling one of its fallen branches with a carving knife he’d produced from his waistpouch.

Daya’s chin is buried in their chest and their arms twisted in the fabric of their traveling cloak, trying to create as much warmth as possible. It’s not much use, though. The cloaks  _ are  _ warm, but the south is far colder than Daya’s ever been used to. A chill set into their bones that not even the fire can chase away...and it hasn’t stopped in the week they’ve been traveling. Not once.

Truthfully, they’re getting tired of dealing with the stiff fingers and chattering teeth, and if it weren’t for the seriousness of the situation, they would consider turning around and going back home.

“It’s cold,” Daya replies, lifting their chin finally, and tries to smile. “I’m not used to it.”

Muriel blinks at them; at their face poking out of the voluminous cloak. His cheeks colour, mouth twitching at the corners. Then slowly, wordlessly, he opens his arms. 

His dark cloak hangs from his hands, looking a little like bat wings. It would have been amusing if they weren’t so damn cold.

“What are you doing?” they ask, brows raised. He’s bare-chested underneath, still clad in the heavy furs and leather he’d left Vesuvia in, though he hasn’t taken off the scarf they bought him.

Muriel’s dark eyebrows draw together, as if the answer should have been obvious. “You’ll be warmer if we share.”

Daya blushes without thinking, pleased and surprised. 

They’ve been getting closer in the past few weeks, more comfortable bit by bit. Muriel feels unsafe with new places and new people, and there have been plenty of those in the last few days. Getting him to adjust to it has been trial and error, but in the end they didn’t have to work too hard. He is reserved, but...underneath that is a longing curiosity at the world around him, and a sweet, generous nature. There had been glimpses of that in Vesuvia, too, and each little gesture seems to mean more, coming from him.

It means trust, comfort, and something new; blossoming between them.

“Are you sure?” Daya asks, eyes wide.

He nods, and that is enough to convince them. They step around the fire and drop to sit between his legs. Their fingers caress his chin briefly - a gesture of thanks - and they spread their cloak to sit on. His arms envelop them with fabric and fur, and Daya sighs blissfully.

“You’re so warm.”

Muriel tucks the cloak around both of them. “I’m used to the cold.”

“Let me guess,” they say. “You’d be stuck with Morga if I froze to death.”

From somewhere above them there is a soft snort.

Daya rests their cheek on his chest. His strong, steady heartbeat comforts them; so does the interlocked arms holding the thick cloak around them, sheltering them from the cold.

Muriel says something under his breath, but they’re already dozing off, and his voice fades to a vague rumble by their ear.

* * *

The next thing Daya remembers is rays of sunlight catching their eyes, turning them red on the inside of their eyelids. They shift, grimacing, and take in the multitude of sensations: warmth on their face, the tickle of hair on their nose, soft fur and fabric on their shoulders, a gentle weight on the top of their head. 

It takes them a moment to realise they’re still nestled in Muriel’s arms. He’s still leaning against the tree, but he’s shifted so they’re resting against his shoulder, cheek pressed against their hair, snoring softly. One arm is curled around their waist, keeping them supported. The other rests on their knee.

Daya shifts, trying to ease the numbness in their legs. The movement jostles Muriel; he starts -- they feel the muscles tense in his arm -- then relaxes. Green eyes blink down at them, a blush spreading across his cheeks.

“Did we fall asleep like this?”

Muriel shakes his head. He shifts, rolling his shoulders, but he doesn’t let go of them. “You did.”

Had he been sitting there all night, holding them? The thought is ridiculous, but also the kind of thing he might do -- their thoughts flash back to finding him outside their door in the palace. Literally guarding them, despite his insistence that he wasn’t one to rely on for anything, let alone protection.

“Muriel,” Daya says, lips twitching. “You could have moved me. Or woken me.”

“I-it’s fine,” he mutters. When they raise their eyebrows he adds, “you looked tired. I...didn’t want to wake you.”

They rise onto their knees, rolling the stiff muscles of their neck, and turn to face him. Daya is not a small person, but even when they’re on their knees they’re not quite eye level.

“You are too sweet,” they tell him. Muriel huffs; in embarrassment or disagreement, and glances away.

Daya reaches out -- slowly, gently -- and turns his head to look at them. They lean forward, hands on his knees for support, and kiss him gently.

There’s a few moments in between for anxiety to creep through--seconds to worry if they’ve pushed too far. Muriel’s whole body tenses; they can feel his thigh muscles freeze under their hands, and his eyes flutter shut. Then he returns the kiss, tentatively and a little awkwardly.

His lips are soft in contrast to the stubble on his chin, and Daya can feel the heat on his cheeks when they cup his face.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” they murmur, when they pause for breath.

Muriel is bright red, eyes wide, and looks so vulnerable they resist kissing him again. Instead they pull back, brushing strands of black hair out of his face, and get to their feet.

“We should keep moving,” they say, offering a hand. “Lucio won’t wait.”


End file.
